


Immunity

by stoprobbers



Category: Doctor Who
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoprobbers/pseuds/stoprobbers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But until now she only could’ve guessed that he is the worst sick person on the surface of the Earth. She should have known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immunity

"Roooooooooose."

The deep, scratchy voice, halfway between actually pathetic and definitely trying to be as pathetic as possible, drifts down the short hallway between bedroom and kitchen and into its intended recipient's ear. Standing at the counter, carefully dosing a mug of steaming tea with an herbal immune system booster, the woman in question rolls her eyes and doesn't justify the whine with a response.

In the near-year since the TARDIS left her in Pete's World for good, Rose Tyler has learned a lot of things about the Doctor. She's learned a little bit about his past, a lot bit about his previous companions and adventures, a surprising amount of his hopes and dreams for his human life, his favorite and least favorite places to be tickled, how he kisses, how he makes love, and how he fucks, what spots on his body make him weak, what little human things make him furious (number one on the list: people in the supermarket express line who have more than the designated number of items). She's learned that he's definitely a spooner and post-sex cuddler, but that he hates bathing or showering with another person, and that his soft spot for her little brother makes him a better sibling to Tony than she herself. But until now she only could've guessed that he is the worst sick person on the face of the earth.

She supposes she should've known.

He scared her half to death, waking her with moaning and clammy skin in the middle of the night, not quite able to pull himself out of sleep. When her panic subsided right around the time she realized he was running a high-but-not-too-high fever, she'd bundled him up in the covers, dosed him with TheraFlu, and moved into the guest bedroom to let him sleep some of it off. She'd woken to her Doctor, still cocooned in their duvet, curled up on the bed next to her. It was both adorable and highly frustrating. Now, two days later, she was just waiting for the symptoms of his cold to manifest in her; no matter how she tried, he refused to recover alone.

"Rooooooose!!"

This time the wail is a lot more impatient and punctuated by several sneezes. She rolls her eyes and adds another box of tissues to the tray of tea and toast and strolls back to the bedroom.

"You are worse than Tony," she admonishes, perching carefully next to him as she lowers the tray onto his lap. He's propped up on pillows, flipping quickly, restlessly through several hundred television channels.

"I am sick," he says, gravely, his voice muffled and warped by his stuffy nose, "My brain hurts, my  _body_ hurts, I can't breathe through my nose, and I can't seem to stay awake for longer than a couple of hours at a time. I think I deserve to be however I want to be."

She ignores that and hands him the mug.

"Drink this." He does and immediately makes a face.

"Blech! No!"

She's ready for him, pressing the mug into his hand even as he tries to put it down on the tray.

"Drink it or I won't stay."

He pouts, eyes big and brown and red-rimmed from sleep and a little teary from sneezing, but after two days of drooling in her hair and sneezing on her neck she thinks she's developed an immunity. Stern, she presses the mug into his hands again.

"You look just like your mother," he grumbles and gulps the tea down in one go. Eyebrow arched she takes the mug from him, still quiet and still in a way she knows he finds deeply disconcerting. But he's sick and in a snit so he sniffles thickly and picks up his toast, tucking in. With a roll of her eyes she draws her legs up fully on the bed and curls into his side, taking the remote out of his hand and turning on one of the reality shows she likes. He makes a dissatisfied noise.

"I was–"

"Eat your toast so we can take a nap. It's exhausting, taking care of you."

"You love it," he insists through a mouthful of bread. She giggles softly.

"I can't wait to repay you in kind when I wake up sick tomorrow."

"You say that every day," he says, carefully moving the tray to the nightstand before kicking off the duvet, body suddenly overheated. Leaning against the outside of his shoulder, Rose stares at his suddenly-exposed legs, long and lean and a little tan and very hairy, tapering gracefully from strong, lean thighs and calves to ankle and then his long, lithe feet. His boxer briefs have ridden up and are bunched in the creases of his hips and she's tempted, so very tempted, to pull the fabric out, smooth it down, and cup him, hold him and stroke him until... She frowns, pushes the thoughts away (he's not well enough for that, she knows he's not, and really she should try her best to mitigate how many of his germs she covers herself with right now), and slides her hand across his belly — also exposed by his movements — instead. He makes a happy sound low in his throat and slides down, pushing a pillow into her face at the same time. She shifts it around with an offended sputter.

"You keep saying that," he tries again, "but you don't wake up sick. I think you're lying, or just trying to make me feel bad, and I feel bad enough, Rose. Everything feels bad. That's why I need you."

"No, that's why you need more TheraFlu," she shakes her head and moves to fetch another dose but he grabs her arm, the one across his stomach, and holds, hard. Surprised, she looks up at him.

"No, stay," he says, pulling her closer, "I just need you. Clearly, you're immune. Just stay. We'll take a nap, stay."

The pathos, this time, is definitely all real; her invincible half-alien love, reduced to an exhausted, achy, bed-ridden mess who just wants to cuddle. She knows, from the tickle in the back of her throat and the headache that's been hovering around the horizon of her senses for the last twenty four hours, that by the time she gets out of bed for his next dose of medicine, she'll be fetching a dose for herself as well. In the past, with Mickey and Jimmy and the small handful of lesser boys in between, she would have never done this, would have holed up in a different room or apartment and stayed well, dropping by from time to time to bring soup or tea or company. She knows she should be doing that now. But she doesn't care, doesn't want to be anywhere but pressed up against his fevered skin, getting his drool and snot in her hair. He rolls over onto his side and she spoons up behind him, nuzzling his back between his shoulder blades because she knows he finds it comforting. True to form, he lets out a soft, approving moan.

"There's no immunity to you," she whispers, and they sleep. 


End file.
